“Yes.” Iris touched the hollow of his throat, making him shiver. “Do I?”
He returned the caress, following the bridge of her nose, the bow of her lips. The waves of her hair. The dark curl of her eyelashes. And he knew that she had changed too. They weren’t the same people that they had been when they first gave each other their vows. It only made him ache for her more, and his fingers drifted along her body, remembering the curve of her ribs.
“Yes,” he said.
His hand traveled farther, down to her hip, stopping only when his fingers hit something concealed in her coat.
Roman paused. “Is that a book in your pocket?”
“See for yourself,” Iris replied.
He did, withdrawing a small green volume from her coat. There was a bird embossed on the cover, but Roman’s attention was snagged by the blue envelope that was folded within the leaves. He recognized it with a wince. Reluctantly, he drew Dacre’s letter from the pages, setting the book on the bed between them.
“What did he say to you?” Roman asked, his voice thick.
Iris sat forward. Their moment shattered, as if Dacre had crept into the room. Following them like a shadow to a place that had once felt safe.
“You can read it,” she said softly.
Roman couldn’t resist, his worry and anger getting the better of him.
As he pored over Dacre’s words, Iris slipped from the bed. She had removed her boots and coat by the time Roman finished, his blood pounding hot in his veins.
“He thinks you are a bird to collect and keep in a cage,” he said, rising from the bed. The paper crinkled in his fist. “A bird that should sing only for him. I hate that he’s trying to draw you in.”
“I confess that he has a way with words.” Iris met Roman’s gaze. Her expression was inscrutable. “And if I didn’t know his true nature, he might have fooled me. But I have an answer for him. I’ve thought about it, most of the day.”
“And what is your answer?”
She crossed the floor to stand before him, toe to toe and eye to eye, plucking Dacre’s letter from his hand with a defiant tilt of her chin.
“He will never have me,” she said.
Roman watched, spellbound, as Iris tore Dacre’s letter into shreds.
She wasted no time, striding into the lavatory. A second later, Roman heard the toilet flush. He imagined Dacre’s ink fading in the water. Disintegrating on its way down to the sewer.
“All right, Kitt,” Iris said when she reemerged. She crossed her arms and leaned on the door frame. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” he asked, surprised by how hoarse he sounded.
“How big this lavatory is!” she exclaimed. “In all my life, I’ve never seen a shower like yours.”
“Would you like to test it as well?”
“I would, actually.”
Roman smiled and walked past her into the chamber. The black and white tiles glistened as he opened the glass door and turned the lever. Water cascaded down from the ceiling, enveloping them in a sultry haze.
“There’s soap and shampoo on that shelf there,” he was saying, adjusting the temperature. “I’ll get you a towel—”
Iris’s hand on his arm brought him back around. Roman turned to look at her, mist shining in her hair. Slowly, she reached up to touch his leather braces, slipping them off his shoulders. He didn’t breathe; his heart felt like it was tethered to a string, tugging deep in his chest. Like he was fastened to her every movement, her every word.
Iris began to unbutton his shirt but she paused halfway down, drawing her lower lip between her teeth.
He stiffened, wondering if the flash of his pale skin was making her hesitate. If she kept going, she would eventually see all his sharp angles. The concave curve of his stomach. The prominence of his ribs. The scars that marred his leg. There was never enough food among Dacre’s forces, and hunger had become Roman’s closest companion. His scars? A map that he traced, over and over, in his loneliness and solitude.
Shame welled in his throat. Another emotion he couldn’t describe coaxed a flush across his skin. He was about to take her hand when Iris said, “I just realized something. You already showered tonight, didn’t you?”
Roman let out a huff of air. Relief softened his bones, made him lean closer to her. “I did, but I can still join you, if you want.”
She smiled. There was a gleam in her eyes as her deft fingers continued their path, down the buttons to his waist.
“I’d like that, Kitt.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Roman’s palms brimmed with shampoo. The air was warm, the shower close to scalding as the water rushed down their bodies in rivulets. But Iris continued to nudge the lever more and more to the left, as if she wanted her water to feel like fire.
Roman, skin splotched as if he were sunburned, would let her do anything, though.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
Iris did, her nose scrunching as water beaded on her face. She gasped when Roman began to wash her hair, kneading the shampoo until it foamed. Again and again, he drew his fingers through her locks, admiring how long and dark they looked when wet. A deep brown with a touch of amber, like wildflower honey.
“This is why you smelled so good at the office,” Iris sighed.
Roman began to rinse the shampoo, pleased when she groaned. “Did I?”
“The electricity could be out on the winter solstice, and I would know the moment you stepped into the Gazette. I hated you for it too.”
He grinned as he drew circles on her back with the bar of soap. The scent of evergreen and meadow grass spread across the eaves of her shoulders. The curve of her spine. “And look where that disdain has brought you.”
“I would have laughed if you had revealed my fate to me then.”
“I know,” he said.
Iris was quiet. The water continued to fall, filling the chamber with a mesmerizing drone, when she turned to face him. His gaze dropped, following the line of her body to her legs, where his attention stopped and held.
Roman had noticed when he had eased down her stockings. The bruises and scabs on her knees. And he hadn’t told her, but he had watched her run through the meadow of Hawk Shire from the second-story window. He had seen with his own disbelieving eyes how she had dodged the gunshots. How a motorcar’s headlights had cut through the darkness, carrying her away.
Run, Iris.
He had felt those kilometers like an illness, spreading through him. Blood to bone to organ. The distance that waxed like the moon. The wondering and the worries as to where she was going and if he would ever see her again.
Roman set down the soap.
He sank to his knees before her, his hands touching those tender marks on her skin. They told him she was strong and brave, but also that she was his. Their souls weren’t mirrors but complements, constellations that burned side by side.